280 AC — Age 8
The problem with getting better at things was that it happened quietly.
There was no clear moment when I crossed a line from bad to less bad. No announcement. No sudden realisation that something which had once been difficult was now merely uncomfortable. It just… happened, somewhere between repetition and boredom.
That was how I missed it.
By eight, my body had started to listen to me more often. Not reliably. Not gracefully. But enough that I no longer had to think about every step I took or every object I lifted. Buckets were still heavy, but they didn't pull me sideways anymore. Walking the lower paths didn't leave my legs burning the next morning. Even holding a wooden sword for too long felt more familiar than impossible.
None of that made me strong.
It did make me careless.
The day it caught up with me started like most others: with instructions that sounded small.
"Go with Harlon," Maege said, not looking up from the table. "You'll walk the inner circuit. Then you'll come back."
"Yes," I replied.
Dacey was already halfway into her boots, movements sharp and inefficient, clearly convinced that this had something to do with her as well.
"No," Maege said, still not looking up.
Dacey froze. "Why not?"
"Because I didn't say your name."
Dacey considered arguing, decided against it, and flopped dramatically into a chair instead.
I followed Harlon out alone.
The inner circuit was dull by design. It looped around storage rooms, small workshops, and unused corners of the keep—places where things accumulated and then stayed forgotten until they were needed. It was the path servants used when they didn't want to be seen, and guards used when they wanted to check things without drawing attention.
I'd walked it enough times that my feet knew where to go without instruction.
That was mistake number one.
Harlon walked a half-step behind me, not close enough to crowd, not far enough to lose me. He carried his spear loosely, the way someone did when they didn't expect to need it but weren't foolish enough to leave it behind.
I matched his pace easily.
That felt good.
We passed a stack of crates near one of the storage doors. Someone had left them half-unloaded, lids askew, straw poking out between warped planks.
"What's in those?" I asked.
Harlon glanced at them. "Salt fish."
"They shouldn't be open," I said.
"No."
I nodded, satisfied, and kept walking.
That was mistake number two.
I didn't stop.
I didn't say anything else.
I assumed someone else would handle it.
The circuit continued. We passed a pair of guards arguing quietly about whether a strap needed replacing. A servant hurried past with an armful of cloth, nearly tripping over her own feet before catching herself and muttering an apology to no one in particular.
Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
When we reached the far end of the circuit, Harlon stopped.
"Turn around," he said.
I did.
We walked back the way we'd come.
The crates were still there.
More open now.
A gull had somehow made its way inside the keep and was perched on the edge of one, head cocked, eyeing the contents with sharp interest.
I stopped.
"That wasn't there before," I said.
"It was," Harlon replied. "You just didn't look at it long enough."
The gull flapped its wings irritably when it noticed us, hopping down into the crate and tearing at the straw with enthusiasm.
"That's bad," I said.
"Yes."
I hesitated. "Should I get someone?"
Harlon watched me, expression unreadable. "You can."
I took a step toward the crate, then stopped.
I could also scare it off.
That would be faster.
I picked up a loose stone from the floor and tossed it—not at the gull, just close enough to startle it.
The gull shrieked indignantly and flapped away through the open doorway it had come in through.
I straightened, faintly pleased.
"That solves it," I said.
Harlon didn't respond.
I waited.
"That solved the gull," he said eventually. "What about the fish?"
I looked at the crate.
Straw was scattered now. The lid had slipped further open. The smell of salt was stronger, sharper.
I frowned. "Someone will notice."
"When?" Harlon asked.
"Soon," I said, without thinking.
He raised an eyebrow.
I didn't like that.
I stepped closer to the crate and tried to shift the lid back into place. It was heavier than I expected, awkward to grip with my fingers slipping against the wood. I strained, adjusting my stance the way Gerren had taught me.
The lid moved an inch.
Then my foot slipped on loose straw.
I went down hard.
The impact knocked the breath out of me. My knee hit stone, pain flaring bright and immediate. The lid slid further instead of closing, cracking against the crate's edge with a dull thud.
Harlon was there immediately, hauling me back upright before I could even finish swearing.
"Stand still," he said.
"I'm fine," I insisted.
"You're bleeding."
I looked down. My knee was already red, blood seeping through the fabric.
That didn't bother me as much as the sound behind us.
Voices.
Someone had noticed.
A guard approached, eyes flicking from the open crate to the scattered straw to my knee. His expression tightened.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I scared off a gull," I said.
Harlon said nothing.
The guard looked at the crate again. "And before that?"
I hesitated.
"I thought someone else would handle it," I admitted.
The guard sighed, already kneeling to pull the lid properly closed. "Next time, say something."
"Yes," I said.
Harlon thanked him briefly and steered me away before the conversation could continue.
We didn't finish the circuit.
Instead, Harlon took me straight back inside.
Maege was in the hall when we returned, listening to a report. She broke off mid-sentence the moment she saw my knee.
"What happened?" she asked.
Harlon answered.
Again: brief. Exact. No commentary.
Maege listened, eyes on me, not blinking.
When Harlon finished, she dismissed the others with a gesture and turned her full attention on me.
"Why didn't you stop?" she asked.
"I thought I had it handled," I said.
That was the truth.
"And when you didn't?"
"I… tried to fix it."
Her mouth tightened. "Without asking."
"Yes."
She nodded slowly. "You weren't wrong to notice the problem."
That gave me a flicker of relief.
"You were wrong to decide you were the solution."
That took it away again.
She crouched in front of me, inspecting my knee. "You're not in trouble for falling."
"I know," I said.
"You're in trouble for assuming," she replied.
She straightened. "You'll spend the afternoon with Gerren."
My stomach dropped.
"Not training," she added. "Sorting."
That was worse.
The armory sorting room was a narrow space stacked high with broken straps, dulled blades, and pieces of armor that were no longer fit for use but hadn't yet been thrown away. Gerren set me at a table with a pile of leather and a simple instruction.
"Separate what can be repaired from what can't," he said.
"How do I tell?" I asked.
"You'll guess," he replied. "And then I'll correct you."
That took hours.
My knee throbbed. My fingers ached. I made mistakes constantly—trying to save leather that was too far gone, discarding pieces that only needed new stitching.
Each time, Gerren corrected me without comment.
Slowly, patterns emerged.
Weakness traveled. Damage spread. Some things failed quietly long before they broke completely.
By the time Maege came to collect me, my head hurt more than my knee.
She looked over the sorted piles, nodded once, and dismissed Gerren.
On the walk back, she didn't speak.
I waited.
Finally, she said, "Competence without restraint is dangerous."
I didn't respond.
"You noticed something wrong," she continued. "That's good. But you don't fix problems by yourself here. You make them visible. You make sure the right people see them."
I nodded.
"And if you think you're the right person?"
"Then I'm probably wrong," I said.
That earned me a glance. Not approval. Recognition.
That night, as I lay in bed with my knee wrapped and aching, I replayed the moment over and over—the stone in my hand, the satisfaction of a quick solution, the sound of my body hitting the ground.
I hadn't been trying to show off.
I'd just… assumed.
That was worse.